Auld lang syne

For the last Friday of 2022, as we head into Year 2 of the Russo-Ukrainian war, Year 4 of the COVID pandemic and Year 51 of Republican fuckery, I think today’s earworm ought to be something that celebrates everyone who’s made it through whatever it is that needed to be got through.

So, Elton John’s “I’m Still Standing”.

Be safe and Happy New Year to all who celebrate.

 

 

On the road again

Well, it’s been a while since we’ve had car vanity plates, so cast thine orbs upon these:

I'm assuming a Harry Potter fan (or maybe just a player):

Maybe ommmmm balances out this one:

Do not know what this means, but it's parked at the lot next to the W&OD trail right much:

 

 

Frozen

I may have mentioned the chilly weather we’ve recently had around the District They Call Columbia. Compared to what much of the country is suffering, I am not in any way complaining; just noting that 8°F makes for quite the brisk morning walk. Yesterday it was a positively balmy 27°F and I eschewed the scarf wrapped around my ears.

Do I know how to live on the edge, or what?

My backyard ground-feeding birds are going through the seed at a rate of knots. I toss out a couple of fistfuls about every hour when I’m home during the day. And they really appreciate the heated birdbath. It doesn’t make the water warm; it just keeps it from freezing, which means the birds can drink it. I’ve seen way more of them bellying up to the bar in the past few days, probably because their usual sources of water are frozen solid.

(I have to refill the birdbath once a day, they're drinking so much.)

I keep thinking of the line from “In the Bleak Midwinter”: “Earth was hard as iron, water like a stone.” That’s pretty much where we are.

Well, but the frozen puddles that have driven the birds to my back yard are still beautiful, which is the point of today’s post. Viz:

 

On the ponds, only the water near the fountains is still liquid; that doesn't help the birds, though.

Sleep with the fishes no more

I was really startled the week before Christmas to hear that the AquaDom in Berlin had ruptured and that hundreds of the fish it housed were dead. The aquarium was in the Radisson Blu hotel, and when I booked there in 2018 I chose a room that faced it rather than one overlooking the street.

Ordinarily I prefer a view of street life, as long as I’m insulated from the noise, but I thought the aquarium was something unique; it was. It was a bit weird to open the drapes and watch fish swimming at eye level just a few meters away.

Occasionally I also caught housekeeping cleaning the interior walls.

It was actually a tourist attraction—the tank surrounded a glass elevator and people lined up in the hotel lobby to go up and be surrounded by exotic fish.

At night they turned the lights down to give the fish a rest.

Well, I don’t know whether they’ll rebuild the AquaDom, or what the Radisson will do with the otherwise cavernous atrium—it’ll take some time to repair the damage done by tens of thousands of gallons of salt water flooding the place. It’s a grace that the rupture (cause still undetermined, though under investigation) occurred early in the morning, and that only two people were injured.

But I’m glad I had the opportunity to sleep with the fishes for a few nights.

 

 

 

Gratitude Monday: this [blessed] year

Whoa—last Gratitude Monday of 2022. “Thank God it’s over” seems kind of contrary to the spirit of the day. But I suspect we all are feeling some of that.

Maybe “I’m grateful that we survived another year of pandemic, political upheaval, climate-induced ‘natural’ disasters, man-made calamities, economic variables, emotional ups and downs, and medical bills” is more to the point.

Because so many did not and I am cognizant of that.

The past two days we have had single-digit (Fahrenheit) temperatures in the People’s Republic, and I am so grateful that I have warm clothes and central heat. That the power has stayed on and the refrigerator is full.

I’m grateful that I don’t have to choose between paying the electric bill or buying groceries.

I’m grateful that I have a heated birdbath—my birds seem extra thirsty, perhaps because their other sources of water have frozen solid.

I’m grateful that I have access to excellent medical care and that—because of my employer-subsidized health insurance—I’m not in immediate danger of medical bankruptcy.

I’m grateful it never occurred to me to invest in cryptocurrency. Or NFTs. I mean—whatever the hell?

I’m grateful for the work that non-profits and institutions I support do to improve the world we live in. Alice’s Kids, Texas Tribune, WITF, Islands Feral Cat Project, WRRAP, The Jewish Federation, Celebrate Mercy, World Central Kitchen, Bennett College, San Gabriel Valley Humane Society, Mother Jones, ACLU, EveryLibrary Institute and others that I disremember at the moment. (There were some GoFundMes here and there.) And I’m grateful that I could contribute to them.

I’m grateful for the friends who put up with a lot from me and I’m grateful to be their friend.

I’m grateful to face another year in hope of dealing with its vagaries—with help from my friends—and perhaps doing something to make this sad old world a better place.

 

 

Peace on earth

It’s my custom to close out Advent with “Hallelujah” from Messiah, but this year I’m just not feeling it. So we’re having “Dona Nobis Pacem”, performed by the Virtual Choir of West Michigan in a recording two years ago.

May all the world receive peace into their hearts and act on it.

 

 

Redeeming love

Here we are at the cusp of Christmas. People always be like “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas”, and a good chunk of the continental US is under a gazillion feet of snow with high winds, making holiday travel even more chaotic than usual.

I myself never dream of a white Christmas and I say people should be careful what they ask for. This year more than ever they should be wishing for stable power, reliable and affordable sources of heat, potable running water and that Russian forces retreat the hell back to Moscow and have a few words with Vladimir Putin.

Anyway, back to the ultimate day of Advent. “Once in Royal David’s City” has always been one of my favorite carols because of the haunting intro by a solo (usually boy) soprano and the build-up to the crashing finish. It typically is the opening carol in Christmas Eve services of Nine Lessons and Carols, and I associate listening to it (broadcast from King’s College, Cambridge) as I drove around, delivering gifts and tying up loose ends for the holiday prep.

I’m giving you a performance by another Cambridge college, Trinity, because they allow women in their choir, which seems more fitting to the 21^st Century somehow.

May all who need the joy of Christmas find it this year. Not Putin, tho.

 

 

 

This shall be the sign

Only two more sleeps until Christmas and I have to say I’ve been looking forward to today’s post since my visit to Avignon last month.

I’ve already referenced Medieval paintings I saw at a museum there in my post for Annunciation Sunday. Specifically I was taken by 14^th Century Sienese painter Bartolo di Fredi’s portrait of Mary as she took in the news that God was going to impregnate her.

But there was another of his works that kept drawing me back again and again: “Nativity and Adoration of the Shepherds”.

I love this painting because of all the animals. I mean, you have your angels…fine. And the Holy Spirit descending.

But the animals, man—starting with the ox and ass behind Mary and Jesus.

And the “sheep”…or they might be goats. And I think that may be a chicken at the right of the kneeling shepherds. Not sure, but possibly.

But what completely fascinates me are the dogs. They have collars! This one in the foreground:

And this one back with the flock of whatever they are:

(Well, looking at this again, the dog with the flock may be the same dog in the foreground. Di Fredi may be painting a narrative, with the angels appearing to the shepherds in the background and then them arriving at the stable. Dunno.)

Did dogs have collars in First Century Judea? I’m guessing they did in 14^th Century Siena but—like the luxurious clothing for Mary—seems a little anachronistic for working dogs at the birth of Christ.

One of the first things we knew about the Russian invasion of Ukraine was how much Ukrainians love their animals. People fleeing the invaders left behind so much, but they took their pets with them, even walking for miles carrying them. We also saw countless photos of Ukrainian soldiers with their cat (and dog) mascots; I loved how the tabbies matched the military camouflage, although I hated the circumstances. Even so, hundreds—probably thousands—of beloved pets have been caught up in the devastation the Russians have wreaked. Neighbors who couldn’t or wouldn’t evacuate have done their best to look after the animals. As one soldier said about the connection between dog/cat and human, “Even in the midst of war, it’s possible to experience fleeting moments of grace.”

Today’s Advent piece is about the shepherds at Bethlehem. “While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night” is sung as part of the service of Lessons and Carols at King’s College, Cambridge.

May all creatures—upright or on four paws—experience more than fleeting moments of grace. 

 

Bountiful, bountiful

It may surprise you to learn that today’s Advent carol originated in Ukraine. It’s known around the world as “Carol of the Bells”, but it was written in 1914, based on the Ukrainian folk chant “Shedryk”, about a swallow that sings the first song of Spring. (Way back when, the New Year began in Spring, and “Shedryk” is kinda focused on the New Year.)

I imagine you could hear a lot of versions of this all over Ukraine, despite the Russian invasion; Ukrainians aren’t the type of folks to let bullies (no matter how many missiles they use) interfere with what’s important to them. So here’s Chornobrivtsi singing it at a Christmas concert in Lviv, 12 years ago.

May the New Year bring the peace and solace that 2022 has failed to deliver.

 

 

Hard as iron

We’re at the Winter Solstice, that point in the calendar where those in the Northern Hemisphere experience the longest night. For millennia, humans have found ways—physical and spiritual—to defend against the darkness; one of them is to celebrate the turning of the cycle. After tonight, night retreats day by day until balance is achieved at the equinox, and then the tide turns again at the Summer Solstice.

It’s no coincidence that religious traditions lay on the candles at this time of the year or that much of the imagery revolves around the warmth and light of loved ones gathered in circumstances of good will. Even if too much of that is marketing hype these days, it’s still a good thing to consider allowing some lightness into our lives.

Though difficult, I imagine that the Ukrainian people are doing exactly this at every opportunity they have, though those opportunities be fleeting. And I have so much respect for them.

Today’s Advent piece is perfect for Solstice—Gustav Holst’s setting of the poem by Christina Rosetti, “In the Bleak Midwinter”. IMO Rosetti captures the essence of winter: "Earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone." But then she walks us back, just like the sun does, starting tomorrow.

Here's the Quire Cleveland performing it.

May everyone find light and warmth even in the coldest and darkest places.

 

 

 

Hark!

For those in the Northern Hemisphere, Advent comes in winter, which—for much of the geography—means cold temperatures, grey landscapes and snow. Many people like that fine, but I’m pretty sure that subset of humanity has easy access to warm shelter, unbroken grocery supply chains and reliable potable water. Millions in areas like Ukraine and Syria are not so fortunate, so the season is mixed for them.

Therefore, today’s Advent piece comes from the Caribbean, via Carnegie Hall, because we could use a little island warmth and color. Here are Kathleen Battle and Frederica von Stade singing “Mary’s Boy Child”, with the help of Wynton Marsalis and the American Boy Choir.

May warmth find its way to all in need of it.

 

 

Gratitude Monday: Those who sit in darkness

This is the last Gratitude Monday before Christmas. And I may have mentioned that I—like millions of others—am sometimes not as into the joy of this season. There is frankly too much shit going on, on both a macro and micro level for me to quite feel…I dunno, festive.

At times like these, I am grateful for the power of music—all kinds of it—to pull me away from the quotidian and wrap myself in beauty. Music has the same power that my morning skyscapes do to fill me with joy, comfort and gratitude.

(This is why I use my morning photos for my computer desktops. When I’m feeling like rage quitting, I close out all the open apps and look at the screen.)

As we round the corner onto Christmas, I think about Ukrainians scrabbling in the ruins of their homes and cities, without heat, light or power thanks to the ego-driven aggressive war waged by Russia; what I’m facing is a puff of wind compared to the hurricane they’ve endured since February.

So I’m sharing one of my all-time favorite Christmas hymns, translated by the Victorian polymath Catherine Winkworth from the German. Its opening verse is imprinted on my soul:

“Comfort, comfort ye, my people
“Speak ye peace, thus saith our God
“Comfort those who sit in darkness
“Mourning under sorrow’s load.
“Speak ye to Jerusalem
“Of the peace that waits for them
“Tell her that her sins I cover
“And her warfare now is over.”

The Cathedral Choir of Saint John the Divine is singing it in a performance from two years ago, when the world definitely needed comfort.

May all who carry sorrow's load find comfort in the beauty of the skies and music.

Heaven and earth contained

We’re at Advent IV, Annunciation Sunday. This is when Christians focus on that time when the Archangel Gabriel appeared to Mary and announced that she’d been chosen to bring the Son of God into the world via virgin birth, thus getting the whole thing rolling.

We only have the (male) Gospel accounts of that event and they pretty much gloss over what must have been quite the awkward conversation. What we’re told is that, upon receiving the announcement (no discussion allowed), Mary replies, basically, “Well, okay. I am the handmaiden of the Lord. Let’s do this.”

I was reminded of this when touring le musée du Petit Palais in Avignon, which houses a collection of Medieval art. Mary figures in a lot of the paintings—nativity, virgin and child, Mary surrounded by phalanxes of male saints who did not live during her lifetime, the annunciation…quite the fixation on Mary. Viz:

Sandro Botticelli, “Virgin and Child”:

(You're getting two Botticellis for the price of one.)

Neri di Bicci, “Virgin and Child”: 

(This one completely astounded me because look at her fingers!)

Zanobi Strozzi, “Altarpiece of Saint Jerome”

(I wondered why Jerome, so I looked him up. In addition to translating the Bible into the vulgate, it seems that the Church Father had Ideas on how women should live their lives. Because of course.)

I shouldn’t have to say this, but—without exception (unless covered by “School of” or “Anonymous”)—the painters were male. As I went from painting to painting, I was struck by the fact that a Jewish peasant girl was depicted in unlikely luxurious fabrics and furs, everything is sparkling clean and there are no other women in sight (unless the odd Saint Catherine or Saint Bridget gets mixed in with Jerome, Peter, Benedict and the rest). Mary and her role are idealized as only men who never had to bother with domestic life could idealize.

This is particularly true in pictures of the annunciation, where Mary’s reaction to Gabriel’s surprise is demure, pious or rapturous. Except for this one, by Bartolo di Fredi:

Now, this is a portrait of a teenager from the back of beyond who’s just been told by a guy claiming to be an archangel that God is sending the Holy Spirt to impregnate her to fulfill the prophesies of a messiah and for the good of man.

“Dude—wut?

On the Sunday devoted to the ultimate mother, I’m thinking of the millions of women in Ukraine, Syria, Eritrea, Tibet—around the world, really—who are holding things together for their families, friends and communities without benefit of posses of saints to lift them up. They’ve done this in the face of terror, famine, war, floods, misogyny and mansplaining. They have all had the expression di Fredi depicted on their faces more than once, but they carried on. Just like Mary.

NB: Hanukkah begins tonight. For reasons of numeracy, I got muddled about that this year and posted early. That piece is found here.

Okay, today’s Advent piece is “There Is No Rose of Such Virtue”, which dates from the 15^th Century. Mary is often symbolized by a rose, usually a white one, indicating her pure state. And here’s Sting to sing it.

May all who carry the burden of holding things together find respite, comfort and joy.

 

 

 

Love in your heart

There have been approximately 78,344 film iterations of A Christmas Carol since it was published in 1843. One of my most favorite versions is 1988’s Scrooged, with Bill Murray playing TV network exec Frank X. Cross, a legend-in-his-own-mind asshole who doesn’t give a toss about the lives of anyone around him.

The “around him” part would extend to the entire world, BTW. He’s a slightly blotchier 80s Elon Musk without the billions but with all the ego.

His mean-spiritedness is demonstrated by putting on a live production of the Dickens story on Christmas Eve, requiring everyone involved to work through the run-up and the night. Bah, humbug!

Well, of course Cross is redeemed, with the help of the three Christmas ghosts. Instead of showing his change of heart by sending a turkey to an employee, he barges onto the set of the live broadcast and delivers a passionate plea for everyone watching to participate in the “miracle of Christmas”—caring for those they encounter, both friend and stranger. And to do it outside of the Christmas season.

“I'm not crazy.

“It's Christmas Eve.  

“It's the one night of the year when we all act a little nicer; we smile a little easier, we cheer a little more.  

“For a couple of hours out of the whole year, we are the people that we always hoped we would be.  

“It's a miracle.  It's really a sort of a miracle because it happens every Christmas Eve.  And if you waste that miracle, you're going to burn for it.  

“I know what I'm talking about.  You have to…to do something.  You have to take a chance.  You do have to get involved.  

“There are people that are having trouble making make their miracle happen.  

“There are people that don't have enough to eat.  

“There are people that are cold.  

“You can go out and say hello to these people.  

“You can take an old blanket out of the closet and say, "Here."  

“You can make them a sandwich and say, "Oh by the way, here."  I get it now.   And if you give, then it can happen.  Then the miracle can happen to you.  

“It's not just the poor and the hungry; it's everybody who has got to have this miracle.  And it can happen tonight for all of you.  

“If you believe in this spirit thing, the miracle will happen, and then you'll want it to happen again tomorrow.  

“You won't be one of these bastards who says, "Christmas is once a year, and it's a fraud."  It's not.  It can happen every day.  

“You've just got to want that feeling.  And if you like it and you want it, you'll get greedy for it.  You'll want it every day of your life, and it can happen to you.  

“I believe in it now.  

“I believe it's going to happen to me now.  

“I'm ready for it.  And it's great.  It's a good feeling.  

“It's really better than I've felt in a long time.  

“I'm ready.  

“Have a Merry Christmas, everybody.”

And then they all sing “Put a Little Love in your Heart”, which is not technically a Christmas piece, but it certainly supports the theme Cross has going. And it’s something we should all be considering—the season is about love made manifest, and we can demonstrate love in so many ways.

So here’s Annie Lennox and Al Green singing “Put a Little Love in your Heart”, recorded for the Scrooged soundtrack.

May all creatures find and expand their capacity for sharing love now and throughout the year.

 

 

 

Only in my dreams

I’m pretty sure that every war begun since the year 1 BCE touted that soldiers from both sides would be home by Christmas.

Victorious, of course.

Trying to think of any that lived up to the hype, but I'm coming up empty.

Putin’s current little adventure in Ukraine was supposed to have over in three days, yet here we are, like 298 later. There will be a lot of Russian families marking the holidays without Vanya, Pasha and Mitya. And families all over Ukraine will be making do not only with their brothers and sisters at the front, but in bomb shelters, shelled-out buildings and in the cold and dark from power outages.

Merry Christmas, y’all.

Well, it should come as no surprise that “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” was written in 1943 (first recorded by Bing Crosby). Its lyrics encapsulate the longing of every soldier on every side in every war for the past two millennia to be with family and friends for the quintessential family-and-friends holiday. So it’s my choice for today’s Advent piece.

paints an idealized picture of what the holidays represent. It sounds a little kitschy these days, but it must have cut deep into the hearts of everyone who’d been displaced by the war.

Apparently the song’s writer couldn’t sell it to music publishers until he sang it to Bing Crosby on the golf course. Crosby liked it, and back in those days, if Crosby wanted to make a record, he did. It was a substantial hit for him in both 1943 and 1944.

Josh Groban has got a lot of mileage out of his update—voted greatest holiday recording of all time in a recent poll by readers of the San José Mercury-News. He beat out Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song”, which I’d have thought unstoppable. It’s nice, of course, although I think it just a tad manipulative weaving in messages from serving soldiers and their families. (But, in fairness, I think a little Groban goes a long way, so when I hear him I need to guard against insulin shock.)

I’m giving you Vanessa Williams singing it.

May all who cannot in fact be home for Christmas find it where they are.